Thanks for buying my new books. The response has been great!

I have another book out on Amazon.com

Email me for story ideas or any comments on the novels. NSX3400@gmail.com

It's a series of ballbusting stories set in suburbia.

Title: The Neighbors

Author: Joe Gonzo

Excerpt:

Tracey woke shaking, her body still humming with the aftershocks of memory. Every muscle in her thighs burned from the night’s tension; her hand smelled of sweat, her palm sticky from where she’d pressed it hard between her legs before sleep finally overtook her. The house outside her room was silent and still, so even sounds from inside her own head bounced loud—her pulse, her short, ragged breaths, the faint wet pop from her mouth as she rolled her tongue against dry teeth.

She tried to reimagine the moment: Chase’s face above the rim of the torn shorts, mouth jammed open and gasping, eyes already dialed out from the pain. She wanted to own it again—not in cheap daydream fragments, but the full force of it, the raw animal collapse of someone who’d always been untouchable. In her mind, she was the one kneeling there, not Jenny or Margaret. Her own foot, lifted and weighted with perfect balance over his ribs, shattering the last of his pride. She almost cried thinking about it, the sharp heat hissing through her chest. Not just because of the violence. Because of the transformation—the way every muscle in Chase’s face had twisted through shock, shame, unwilling pleasure, and it was Tracey who had done it, Tracey who’d made a god out of herself for that instant.

Her phone buzzed under her pillow, a single angry vibration. She flinched, thumbed it open, and saw the texts stacked up from Margaret.

[5:46am] “u awake?”

[5:47am] “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

[5:49am] “I want to do it too. All the way this time. The way Jenny does.”

Tracey stared at the screen until her vision blurred. She wanted it too. That certainty had been branded into her skin, impossible to wash away. She typed only, “meet me at 7 behind the church doors.” She hit send and watched the message icon pulse, a dopamine dart to the frontal cortex. Her legs were already swinging over the edge of the bed, toes curling against the chill floor, as if she’d known all along she wouldn’t be able to wait.

The normal rituals felt fake that morning. Shower scalded her skin raw, the water pressure juddering like a jackhammer on her collarbones, but even that couldn’t sand the goosebumps off. She’d never cared about makeup, but she smeared a streak of black beneath each eye just to see the shadow it made, a challenge to the mirror. The clothes she picked—cleanest pair of shorts, black tee, the same battered flats Margaret had once admiringly called “mercenary”—all felt like bits of armor, not uniform.

Breakfast? Impossible. The inside of her mouth felt scrubbed with steel wool, each swallow like dragging sandpaper down her throat. She stood at the kitchen counter, watching her parents hunched over their plates, the sound of her father's spoon scraping yogurt from the bottom of his bowl like nails on concrete. The refrigerator's hum filled the silence between them. Her 19-year-old brother, Greg, shuffled in, eyelids heavy with sleep, wearing only navy boxer shorts with a frayed elastic band. He scratched his chest, yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, completely oblivious that his morning erection tented the thin cotton and poked through the front opening like a pale, veined finger pointing accusingly at the family table.

Tracey averted her gaze, a cold spike shooting through her chest. For one insane moment she pictured herself walking over, yanking Greg’s boxers to his knees, and shattering whatever pride he had left with a single, merciless kick. The pattern of last night’s violence was alive in her tendons, a secret rhythm. Her father grunted something, mouth full of toast, but it might as well have come from the radio for all she registered it.

"You're up early," her mother said, voice high and tight, not really a question.

Tracey shrugged, letting her mind snap back to the surface. "Big test in trig today." She scraped two slices of bread from the bag and forced them into the toaster, the violence of the movement sending cold crumbs everywhere. "Have to study with Margaret before class." Even saying those names, her own and Margaret's, made the electricity shimmer under her skin.

Greg lumbered past her, his bare thigh brushing against her hip. He didn’t even seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. Maybe he really had forgotten how Tracey had humiliated him a month before, right there in front of Margaret—dropped him to the grass with a single, clean kick, his hands clutching his crotch, face red and wet in front of their mother’s horrified scream. Or maybe he just didn’t see her as a threat anymore. Maybe that was the real point. 

He sat next to her, knee bent at a sharp angle with his right foot resting on the wooden chair seat, left leg splayed open like a wishbone about to snap. His navy boxer shorts rode up his pale thigh, the worn cotton bunching where it shouldn't. The frayed elastic gaped, revealing a glimpse of wrinkled flesh, pink and vulnerable as a newborn mouse, while the rounded head of his penis peeked through the fly like some blind, curious creature. Steam rose from his coffee mug, curling around his fingers as he reached for the sugar bowl, his nails bitten to the quick. He didn't flinch or adjust himself, as if his body were merely furniture in the room. Tracey's fingers twitched against her empty plate, imagining the satisfying crunch of knuckles against soft tissue.

She glanced up at her parents, searching their faces for any sign they sensed the violence humming beneath her skin. They remained oblivious, her father's thumb swiping rhythmically across his iPhone screen, her mother's face bathed in the blue glow of her device, the light catching on the fine wrinkles around her eyes.

Tracey nearly laughed, a plan already crystallizing. Chase's face flashed in her mind—the way he'd crumpled when Jenny had finished with him—and she imagined Greg's features superimposed there instead. She'd need Margaret for this; Margaret who texted at dawn, hungry for more. Together they could engineer something that would break her brother in ways that wouldn't heal, applying Jenny's brutal lesson with surgical precision.

The clock over the stove said 6:32. She finished the last of her lukewarm coffee, wiped up the crumbs, and shouldered her backpack. The screen door slapped shut behind her as she cut through the side yard, dew soaking her calves. The sky was a chalky bruise, clouds clumped up like oatmeal. She found Margaret already waiting behind the church, her face pale and luminous in the early clouded light. She clutched her backpack with both arms, knuckles shining white, and for a second Tracey wondered if she’d lost her nerve. But Margaret’s eyes—gray, wide, rimmed with sleep-shadow—locked onto Tracey’s, and Tracey felt the jolt travel straight to the base of her skull. No, not lost at all. More like coiled, waiting for permission.

“Tell me,” Margaret said, stripping the words bare of hello or how-are-you. “Tell me what to do.”

Tracey could have laughed. Instead, she flicked her eyes down the alleyway to where the maintenance men always stashed the dumpster, checked they were alone, and stepped closer so their noses nearly touched. “Today’s not about Jenny. Not about watching. I want to do it myself.” She heard her own words and knew she’d crossed something——couldn’t walk it back now. Her tongue felt heavy behind her teeth.

Margaret waited, silent and greedy. Tracey set her hand on the rough limestone, feeling grit dig under her nails. She pictured Greg’s throat in the crook of her elbow, his face mashed into gravel, the soft bulge of him exposed and helpless against the curb. She never really hated him. She didn’t need to. He was just a door. She wanted to see what happened when it swung all the way open.

Tracey reached and pulled Margaret’s wrist, guiding her to stand flush against the wall. The warmth of Margaret’s skin bled through her hoodie and straight into Tracey’s palm. “First, we plan it,” she said, hearing the rasp in her own voice. “Greg’s always home alone on Fridays. He thinks I’m scared of him since—” She cut the memory off, swallowing the acid it left behind. “We could make it look like he’d fallen down the stairs. He’s always doing that, always too loose in his own skin, always coming home stoned. But we do it right. We don’t just hurt him…” She swallowed, pulse hammering at her temple. “I want to see if he really breaks.”

Margaret stopped breathing for a second—a held breath, then a slow, deliberate exhale. “You want him to cry?” she whispered.

She shook her head. “Crying’s nothing. I want him to be different after.” Tracey paused, searching Margaret’s face for any flinch or withdrawal, but Margaret only inched closer, hungry as a stray cat. “When I say go, you help hold him down. We take him apart.”